My time’s not lost. Art thou now satisfide
Said I: to which the scoffing boy replide.
Great hope indeed thy rymes should men enlight,
That be with clouds and darknesse all o’recast,
Harsh style and harder sense void of delight
The Readers wearied eye in vain do wast.
And when men win thy meaning with much pain,
Thy uncouth sense they coldly entertain.
For wotst thou not that all the world is dead
Unto that Genius that moves in thy vein